A Best of the Flashback Almanac

The Return-2

Unfortunately, by the time we reached the first commercial zone (Cornerstone Plaza of Cocoa Beach), we had no better idea of what had occurred than before, only that the entire suburb had become wild and overgrown—more than what seemed possible in the 21 months we’d been gone—its parks and lawns become mere patches of blowing tundra, its structures choked in moss and vine.

I picked an orange from a nearby tree and rubbed it against my spacesuit. “So here we are—in search of the black swan. The unexpected event that led to—all this.” I peeled the fruit as I scanned the shopping center, settling on a storefront with a car crashed through its window. “This—what shall we call it? Death by invasive species.” I split the orange down the middle and tossed him half of it. “This lost country. ‘Untrodden by man, almost unknown to man ... a world tenanted by willows only, and the souls of willows.’”

We raised the portions to our mouths and paused, staring at each other. One of us had to be the Guinee pig, who knew what toxins had bled into the ecosystem, or what poisons had entered the food chain. But which one?

“Algernon Blackwood,” I said, attributing the quote—when it became clear he wasn’t going to waver. “The Willows. 1907.”

And then I took a bite—chewing it slowly, as Maldano watched—swallowing, wiping my mouth with a gloved hand. “It’s good. Sweet. Go ahead. Try it.”

He hesitated before peeling off a wedge and placing it in his mouth, at which he closed his eyes and seemed to melt, hanging back his head, working his jaw in a circular motion, reopening his eyes—pausing suddenly.

“What?” I asked. “What is it?”

He tilted his head, peering into the branches. “Isn’t that strange?”

I followed his gaze into the tree but, alas, saw nothing. Which, of course, was precisely the problem; there was nothing—no oranges, no leaves, no uppermost branches, it was as though someone or something had picked the treetop clean.

“Someone has a helluva reach,” said Maldano.

I looked around the lot: at the lichen-covered Public Market and the Jersey Mike’s Subs with the Prius in its window, at the Vietnamese Nail Salon and the El Buzo Peruvian Restaurant. “We should split up, canvas the area. Make sure—there’s nothing else.”

“Yeah,” said Maldano. “I think you’re right.”

I headed for the Public Market. “Make a sweep of the strip mall. I’m going to check out that grocery store.”

He laughed a little at that—which caused me to pause.

“Orders—Hooper?”

I half-turned, but didn’t make eye contact. “Sorry?”

“I mean, in all this? This Big Empty? This ‘world tenanted by willows ... and the souls of willows?’”

There was something in his voice. Something subtle, something contentious.

“Call it what you like,” I said, and continued toward the market.

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